


Snapshot

by amfiguree



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year ago, Ronald Weasley would never have admitted to having the slightest bit in common with Draco Malfoy. (Apart from the fact that they were both purebloods, Prefects, in Hogwarts, and that they hated each other as intensely as Hermione did Viktor Krum after he'd ended their relationship the previous Winter. They'd both also shagged Harry Potter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshot

A year ago, Ronald Weasley would never have admitted to having the slightest bit in common with Draco Malfoy. (Apart from the fact that they were both purebloods, Prefects, in Hogwarts, and that they hated each other as intensely as Hermione did Viktor Krum after he'd ended their relationship the previous Winter. They'd both also shagged Harry Potter.) That is, of course, mostly because a year ago Draco had been eagerly awaiting his induction into You-Know-Who's most trusted company.  
  
Now, however... Ron ponders this as his footsteps echo hollowly down the stairway. Well, now is a different thing altogether. Needless to say, part of the reason this is a different thing altogether is that Draco has been fucking Ron for almost six months.   
  
"Weasley," Draco drawls, his voice low and languid, and Ron startles, turning on his heel to peer down the dimly lit corridor.   
  
A frown creases his forehead when he realizes who it is. "I'm on patrol, Malfoy," he hisses, glancing around the otherwise empty hallway furtively. "If you'd checked the schedule you'd know where you're supposed to be."  
  
Draco smirks as he lounges against a pillar. "Granger opposed my leaving you to your rounds alone."  
  
"Liar," Ron gapes, almost in shock; Draco is never so carelessly blatant. Lying, to him, is an art form. One he's perfected, at that. "'Mione would never tell you to leave your post..." Ron trails off, and then shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. He lowers his voice. "You know what the situation is."  
  
"I'm accustomed to danger, Weasley." Lazy arrogance coats Draco's words, but his eyes are sharp in contrast, too bright. A faded imprint of what could possibly have once been the Dark Mark stands as proof on Draco's arm of what he has endured, a contrast against alabaster skin. They both know what he's been through; Ron did rescue him, after all.  
  
So Ron nods, awkwardly, conceding. Draco doesn't move. They should be going about their rounds now. It is imperative. Two weeks ago, there had been an attack on the grounds of Hogwarts, leaving Professor Flitwick temporarily indisposed, but the assailants had left no trace. Security had been intensified since, in the forms of both prefects and professors.   
  
The War has already started, in smaller, less noticeable parts of England, and it is only a matter of time before Hogwarts will no longer be deemed a safe residence for its occupants--Harry's recent Occlumency lessons with Snape have been increased with fervour, and so have Dumbledore's expectations of the Prefects', till that day arrives.  
  
"They're coming," Draco says, finally, after the silence has stretched too long for comfort. His voice betrays nothing as he rubs his hand over his arm. "It's been burning for days."  
  
Ron stares at him, speechless but for the breathless, "bloody hell," that manages to escape him.  
  
Wryly, Draco looks up at Ron, his mouth curved in a smile that holds no humour. "Worse."  
  
They both know, naturally, that they may not make it out of the War alive. Ron must follow Harry to the end, if he has not been decapitated by then. Draco, too, has someone to follow--the Order. Draco had pledged his allegiance after his father's attempt on his life had been foiled, due to Ron's timely, but unintentional, arrival at the scene.   
  
(Ron's presence had been of no consequence, excepting the interval of astonishment his intrusion had bought to Lucius Malfoy, leaving Draco, who thankfully kept his wits, ample time to snatch his wand and the portkey--one of Dobby’s numerous socks--back to Hogwarts. In fact, Draco had not intended on taking Ron back with him, but as luck would have it, Ron caught the sleeve of his robe just before he was transported by the portkey.)  
  
Finally, Draco stands, pushing himself up off the wall, and advances on Ron. His patented sneer is somehow less potent than he is usually wont, and there is none of his customary disdain in his voice when he speaks, "they're almost here."  
  
A sudden, gripping terror takes hold of Ron; in his mind, the windows shatter, suddenly, and complete darkness looms. When the commotion settles and Ron can see through the shower of glass, Draco is already sprawled across the floor, eyes wide open and unblinking, utterly motionless.  
  
"Yeah," Ron murmurs, shaking himself as he looks up at Draco, still very much alive. He tries not to wonder for how much longer; his imagination is far too vivid for his liking.  
  
"Not tonight, though," Draco says, promising things Ron's sure he shouldn't. "They won’t come tonight."  
  
"Liar," Ron says again, angry at forgetting himself and his duty. He turns abruptly and starts to walk down the passage, still gripping his wand, determined to carry on with the responsibility he's been entrusted with.  
  
Draco studies Ron's back as the edges of his mouth quirk. "If I'm the liar, why are you the one walking away?"  
  
Ron freezes.  
  
Draco takes a slow step forward. "Granger offered to take my post up for me tonight," he drawls, when Ron doesn't budge. His smirk is firmly in place. "I don't know what you think of me, but I wouldn't leave an entire common room unprotected, even if it _is_ full of bloody Gryffindors."  
  
The tension in Ron's shoulders eases, slightly, and Draco finally closes the distance between them both to press his mouth to Ron's neck.  
  
"No," Ron insists futilely, even as he tilts his head back to rest on Draco's shoulder. "There's no one to take over my watch."   
  
Smirking, Draco nips Ron's ear, sliding his hands down Ron's hips.  
  
"We're outside the bloody Slytherin dorm!" Ron protests again, but it's feeble and without real conviction, his own hands clutching the fabric of Draco's cloak to pull him closer as he speaks.  
  
"I know, Weasley," Draco murmurs, against Ron’s ear, as he pulls his wand out with his free hand to cast a Silencing Charm on the portrait of Sir Crosshaw, who's staring at them rather blatantly. "It's why we haven't left."  
  
"You want--but now?" Ron's breath hitches, suddenly, as Draco's tongue sweeps the curve of his jaw. "Here?" Ron hisses, his voice going desperately high-pitched.  
  
"Here," Draco replies, demurely. As he flicks his wrist, Ron's cloak falls to the floor, and then Ron's trousers do the same.  
  
Draco's hand is warm and rough, and Ron finally lets his eyes fall shut. If the Wizarding world as he knows it really is about to end, Ron decides, as Draco nudges his hips further apart, then fucking let it.


End file.
